Tag Archives: children

My dear husband lives with a shrew. (I’ll not mention any names for politeness sake) Said shrew complained about her husband not getting home from the gym in time to get to the grocery store before dinner. (In the shrew’s defense, she’s been in bed for the last two days (sick don’t ya know) and awoke to a home that looked as if, well…as if she’d been in bed for two days instead of running the ship)

Anyway, the husband in this story (are you still paying attention?) pulled up something quite miraculous.

Duh duh duh….INSTACART!

The next thing the shrew knew Instacart was connected to the Whole Foods just down the way and items she knows and loves where being added to the shopping cart. Organic Fuji Apples, 6 please. Ground Allegro Breakfast Blend Coffee, mmmm yes. A fresh piece of salmon from the fish counter, why the heck not?

Two hours later a super nice woman carried the bags of groceries into the kitchen and like a fairy godmother, disappeared into the night. The bags by the way, are all reusable.

And then, to put some icing on the cake, we got an email later in the evening telling us that the dates we ordered had been out of stock (credit) and the broccoli had weighed just under 2 lbs (credit). So not only did we not have to ever leave the house, but the service rocked.

*it should be noted that said husband is telling me that grocery delivery services have existed for ages and i’m no better than a country bumpkin (uh oh, I think I hear that shrew back again)

Some kids come to school in Tea brand clothes, other Gap or J.Crew or my favorite, little Mini Boden. Regardless of the label, the children look groomed and coiffed and put together as only amply fed and much-loved children can. But I’m bucking the trend. To hell with that preppy, adorable look. Today, I’m sending the kids to school in something different.

My daughter is wearing a moth-eaten dress that used to be my mother’s. It’s been around since the dinosaurs and some might say it looks…worn.

My son is wearing his pajamas. The same ones he’s worn since Friday and won’t take off.

In the past I’ve cajoled. I’ve pleaded. I’ve demanded sternly with consequences. And all it results in is tears and chaos. So I’m going with the flow.

Bring on the random clothes, the weird outfits, the strange and the marvelous…I’m down with it. It’s just not worth the fight.

Like this:

5:59am, 5:58am – these are the numbers I see every morning when the little Prince (aka Napoleon Bonaparte) wakes me up. What is up with that short dude? I put him to bed at 6pm – 5:59am wake time. I put him to bed at 9pm – 5:58 wake time. I put him to bed shackled in the closet hanging upside down – 5:59am wake time. (get it? ’cause he’s like the opposite of a vampire – whatever, i’m tired)

And these are the good days. There’s always at least one morning a week where numbers like 4:32am and 4:28am greet my swollen, sleep-crusted eyes. Strangely, the loudness of my voice seems to directly coincide with the order of these numbers.

The point is, just once I’d like to see some different numbers in the morning. A 7? A 8?

Really, my little autocrat, let mama get some sleep. I’m aging so fast from this hard living I look about 49 going on 57.

Sam and I hauled the kids up to Big Bear on Sunday for a little spring sledding. My poor children have never seen snow (ah, life of a child from Southern California). Ridden with guilt over their deprived upbringings, we packed up the snow clothes and set on our way. For $100, Snow Valley resort will put you on a chairlift, carry you to the top of a bunny run, lend you a sled, and….weeeeee! It was awesome. The kids were shell-shocked. That is what sledding is?! Who knew?

But then after the third time down, my daughter wanted to know when we could stop sledding and get on to the skiing part. Talk about transient pleasure. We explained that skiing involved rentals and a different lift ticket. She explaining that sledding was fun and all, but next time, she wanted to ski.

After an arduous (and I mean arduous) drive home, we had Sunday Night Movie Night and went to bed. This morning I asked my daughter if she was excited to tell her friends at school about her adventure. She looked at me and cocked her head, “What adventure, Mama?” The sledding adventure, I told her, surprised that she had forgotten. “Oh yeah, sure.” she agreed in a tone that sounded like, whatever. I couldn’t believe it. After all that work to get them to see some snow. To be in the outdoors. To wear snow clothes and whiz down a mountain. My city kids were showing their true colors.

In my living room we have a small oriental rug. Sam and I purchased it at a bazaar years ago. It was one of our first big buys and it was exciting. The rug is from Afghanistan and we are definitely not the first owners. The color scheme is red and creme and two shades of blue and because the rug is positively ancient, the whole thing is faded six-ways to Sunday. Plus, I have small children and a dog so the poor rug has been put to the test. All of which of course, just makes it more beautiful.

Anyway, around the edges of the rug lies a complicated border. The border, I have been told, is lava. I first found out this startling news when I stepped on it and was told, “Mommy! You’re burning in lava!” Naturally, I jumped out of the border as fast as I could. Soon, talk of the lava had reached far and wide and everyone began carefully stepping over the dangerous terrain. What’s most alarming is that the lava flows around and around the border with no way to curtail its deadly path. The poor dog is forever getting burnt to a crisp and even I have been known to walk right through it unawares. How could I be so careless?

Little did Sam and I know when bought this rug that it would be such an important part of our family. We knew we’d probably have it forever. We didn’t know it would sprout its own lava train.

Valentine’s came and went this year with all the usual fanfare. The kids showed great enthusiasm for ye old day o’ love, which was sweet. Sam treated me royally, which was also sweet. And I didn’t get another ticket from Officer Friendly, which was super sweet. Oh…did I not tell you about that?

Earlier last week, my 1.5 year-old caught his sister’s cold. When Master Princeling catches a cold, sailors beware. I drove to school on Monday morning amidst high decibel whining and shouting. And by shouting, I mean the repeated screaming of a single word until I lose my mind. Examples include, “Down!” (he wants the window down), “Aqua!” (he’s dropped his water and wants me to climb back and get it for him while I’m driving), and “Mine” (usually refers to an object that he was holding, but has now lost to his sister). It’s exhausting.

Quickly I pulled up to school in the yellow zone and handed off my daughter to some hapless parent who was walking in at the same time. My darling older child gave me a hug and a kiss and marched in for all the world a woman of her own. Yes, I nodded to myself, that one’s going to be just fine. And then like a whirling dervish, I was off again. The backseat was noisy. Master Princeling wanted home. I drove like the wind. My one coherent thought in the insane chaos was simple: get baby to bed, get baby to bed. And then Officer Friendly joined the circus.

Of course, the flashing lights and strobe party quieted the Princeling right down. Please, Officer Friendly, I begged – a warning will suffice. The Princeling has me losing my mind and I need to get home to take my tonic. Two shots of wart hog makes the medicine go down, Guinness is brown, put that gun on the ground…

Officer Friendly was not swayed by the crazy in my eyes nor my melodious singing voice. I am now the proud owner of my very own traffic citation. Whoo Hoo!